


the long haul

by Anonymous



Category: Lunch Club, The Last of Us (Video Games), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26062111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Hey," Travis says quietly. "You done?" Backing out of the cramped entryway and behind the main desk, curved and marked with a thousand small blemishes, he glances unsubtly at their one working clock. Even its notoriously shitty hands denote that it's rather too late to be having a breakdown. How inconsiderate of him.---Josh has a normal night.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47
Collections: Anonymous





	the long haul

It's a special kind of anger that overtakes him this afternoon.

This happens sometimes, is all. He doesn't mean to do it - God knows he would rather rough it in the wilderness than harm any of the books - but the seething, unquenchable rage that bubbles just beneath the surface of their little group has to get out somehow.

This time it's Josh, that's all, and the others avoid him obligingly as he lines up an armful of bottles in the parking lot and smashes them into so much green dust. It's not healthy, according to the psychology books; but back then, they could afford to be healthy. Now there is only the oozing red of sunset, the dull faroff crack of a rifle, the crunch of broken glass under Schlatt's old baseball bat. Healthy doesn't even factor in.

When the tremble of fury leaches from his fingers and he can trust himself to speak again he knocks thrice on the door of the library. Of course, anyone out after sunset is expected. He's not surprised that someone waited. Josh is surprised, though, when the person that hoists open the double doors and looks at him is Travis.

"Hey," he says quietly. "You done?" Backing out of the cramped entryway and behind the main desk, curved and marked with a thousand small blemishes, he glances unsubtly at their one working clock. Even its notoriously shitty hands denote that it's rather too late to be having a breakdown. How inconsiderate of Josh.

"Yup." He barricades the door on autopilot, knowing from experience that now the two of them can pretend that the evening never happened. All part of why he likes Travis. He might be older than Josh by a hair, but doesn't show it - his wide eyes, helmet of curly hair and overall misplaced optimism give off a distinctly childish aura. That kind of thing is _healthy for a group's mentality_ , or so Josh has read.

Both sets of stairs curl around the reception area like an unwanted embrace; it really doesn't matter which he chooses. Either way, Travis' listless gaze will pierce the honeyed wood and prickle the back of his neck until something else distracts him. Schlatt returning from his watch seems to do the trick. Their friendly argument drifts up the steps behind him.

It feels strange, still, to weave between the books and not have to worry about finding a Runner lurching around each corner. Strange in the way of safe unfamiliarity. Most of the shelves are bolted to the roof and floor, but the rest have been appropriated to arrange into makeshift rooms by the windows. He likes it. More than he let on to Noah back when he suggested it, at any rate.

It's a shitty approximation of the sumptuous homes in his best-preserved magazines, but a home nonetheless. At least here they can all maintain some semblance of privacy.

The cheery burble of Carson's handheld from his and Ted's 'bedroom' is enough for Josh to give the poetry section a wide berth. As much as he loves the guy, he doesn't really feel like being lectured on personal responsibility today. Cutting past the others' spaces without even stopping to say hello, he drops off his backpack by his bedroll and starts methodically changing shirts before anyone says anything about glass. The old one is studded with twinkly green flecks and torn in a few places. Nothing a little darning won't fix. Just plain pissing annoying. Or, as his mom would say, a good problem to have.

"Make sure you get some rest," Cooper chooses to say instead of commenting, blunt, fiddling with the good hunting rifle on his own prized mattress. That explains the gunshots from earlier. "Tomorrow's you, and fuckin' uh...Charlie, I think. Kinda tired of covering for you." Dry moonlight carves a silver stripe across his set jaw as he yawns, and Josh feels a sudden pang of guilt.

"Yessir," he snarks anyway, and Cooper swings at him lazily with no ill intent. "Woah, there." Their bedside shelf, restocked with mementoes and clothes and bullets, does actually have a few books left. They all sway as he backs away into the wood. When he flops back onto his own mattress, their titles leer enticingly down at him and he squeezes his eyes shut tight despite Cooper's mumble of concern.

He can pretty it up in the gaudy prose he loves so much all night long, but Josh knows why he's really angry.

It was a book again. A book from the crime section, about another man called Joshua. This Josh solved cybercrime and uncovered dubious politics and made a name for himself in the big city. Normally that kind of mid-tier noir bullshit appealed to Josh, really it did, but not this morning. Mainly because with the end of Joshua's sleuthing came the realisation that it wasn't just fiction. It was ancient history.

There probably never really was a person like Detective Joshua. That's not the issue. The _issue_ is that there can never be a person like that again, or at all, because the world that made them possible is gone. Everything Josh knows about that world, that incredibly flawed but infinitely kinder time, comes from moony-eyed old people. Them and their stupid fucking books, like these, and their nonfiction analogues. That's the word they picked, nonfiction, and in retrospect that choice sits heavy with hubris.

It's all fucking fiction now. And it probably always will be, because who in their right mind would want to document the truth of a time like this?

Before he can even register where his feet are taking him he bursts out onto the roof. Ted is sitting on the edge with a raised bow and a full quiver. Feet dangling, he gives Josh a once-over and blinks. The fight goes out of him at the sight.

"You're good," he remarks neutrally as a distant Stalker, wandering in and out of the trees on the ridge overlooking town, collapses into a pathetic heap. Bastard things. Ted just nods, watching its obscene bioluminescent patches shift in death. "I do hope you know you have to hike up there and burn it tomorrow, though." Grunting in that familiar almost-amused almost-pissed way, Ted doesn't move as Josh sits gingerly next to him. Cross-legged, because, unlike some people, he actually cares about his safety.

"I started on your list," he blurts suddenly, nocking another arrow. It's not a very well-made one - it spirals and thunks uselessly into a tree on the hill. A Runner sniffs at it and snarls for a few moments. Not one of Wilbur's, that's for sure.

The walls do their job well enough. Concrete and who knows what else, poured so long ago that it may as well have preceded Outbreak Day. Josh knows this, but the sheer volume of infected outside tonight makes him jittery. At least Ted's here.

"Oh yeah?" Is that casual enough? Something in Ted's flicker of a smirk says maybe not, but it would be nice to finally have someone who cared about the books like he does. Someone who isn't so standoffish and new, anyway.

"Mm," and he sets the bow down, takes off the quiver to rifle through it. "Got bored, read the one about superheroes."

"What'd you think?"

"Made me feel fuckin' dumb as shit."

They share a chuckle at that.

"Yeah," Josh smirks, "they have that effect on people. There's this really neat thing called a dictionary-" Ted shoves him almost off the roof. Not his fault. It's like sitting with a big, excitable, _very strong_ dog.

"I know what a dictionary is!" As always with him, the riposte sits in the strange space between jest and insult. "Fuck FEDRA and all, but they sure know a lot about teaching you useless bullshit from dozens of years ago. No idea how you managed reading," he adds mischievously, "not knowing half the words."

"Amen to that," says Josh, who as a child would have pissed his pants with jealousy upon meeting a QZ kid of any description, with only mild affront. It's not something he can begrudge now, considering that Ted can't be more than a few years older than him. Boston doesn't deserve his talents. How and why exactly Ted left, Josh doesn't ask.

He's here now. That's what's important. If the books have - inadvertently - taught Josh anything, it is that now is all that matters. Now is nonfiction, and unlike the fantasies of the time before Outbreak Day, he sees no way it can come to an end.


End file.
